


Except You Ravish Me

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's got a dirty mouth, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Collars, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley in a collar, Food Kink, Foot Massage, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Leashes, Light BDSM, M/M, NSFW Art, Safewords, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), a love letter for the collared Crowley fans, blindfolds and bonds, horny sonnets, just a sprinkle of divinity kink, masochistic English poetry 101, the inherent sexiness of Aziraphale's rolled-up sleeves, unbeta-ed we fall like Crowley, very slight humiliation, we may as well go all the way with the blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: They have an arrangement for these days when Crowley can't find words to ask for what he wants. This is how it begins.Aziraphale says nothing. He only watches Crowley with that patient look on his face. Crowley knows he's waiting for him to approach. The angel never asks Crowley for this. It is never Aziraphale who seeks control. Rather, it is always Crowley who must relinquish it.So Crowley stumbles forward on unsteady legs, collapsing into a tangle of limbs at Aziraphale's feet and pressing the leash into the angel’s hand, the sheen of the gold leather catching the light.When Aziraphale's fingers close around the leash, Crowley drops his hand with a sigh. Total surrender. The relief of it is all-consuming, intoxicating, filling him all at once. He kneels quietly with his head bowed at the angel's feet, awaiting his will.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 249
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Except You Ravish Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lookitsstevie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookitsstevie/gifts).



> Take me to you, imprison me, for I,  
> Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,  
> Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.  
> –John Donne’s “Holy Sonnets: Batter my heart, three-person'd God”

The familiar weight of the leather is comforting in Crowley's hands. Carefully, he places it around his neck, tightening it before fastening it shut, the golden buckle cold against his skin. The leash slides neatly into place into the loop at the base of his throat. He tugs at it experimentally, making sure it's secure.

Satisfied, Crowley heads out of the back room and into the bookshop where the angel is sitting at his desk, the afternoon sunlight spilling through the window, illuminating his face with an almost ethereal glow.

Crowley tries to speak, but the words are stuck in his throat. He falters for a moment, but Aziraphale catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. He glances in Crowley’s direction, and his face brightens into that beautiful smile of his. How is it that he's still so delighted to see Crowley, who's been lurking in the backroom ever since they'd returned from lunch? Crowley will never understand.

The angel’s gaze falls on the collar around Crowley's neck, then the leash in his hand. His eyes relax into familiar lines of patience around the corners, soft and accepting, and Crowley feels warm, as though he’s been pulled into the circle of those sturdy arms.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says before hesitating, worrying at his lower lip.

They have an arrangement for these days when Crowley can't find words to ask for what he wants.

This is how it begins.

Aziraphale says nothing. He only watches Crowley with that patient look on his face. Crowley knows he's waiting for him to approach. The angel never asks Crowley for this. It is never Aziraphale who seeks control. Rather, it is always Crowley who must relinquish it.

So Crowley stumbles forward on unsteady legs, collapsing into a tangle of limbs at Aziraphale's feet and pressing the leash into the angel’s hand, the sheen of the gold leather catching the light.

When Aziraphale's fingers close around the leash, Crowley drops his hand with a sigh. Total surrender. The relief of it is all-consuming, intoxicating, filling him all at once. He kneels quietly with his head bowed at the angel's feet, awaiting his will.

“Shall we go with our usual colour system, dearest?” Aziraphale murmurs. “Or do you prefer a safeword today?”

“Mm. Safeword,” Crowley mumbles. “Caduceus.”

Aziraphale’s lips curve into the hint of a smile. “As you wish.”

The next thing he does is to unclasp the silver chain that, once upon a time, Crowley could never take off. The chains that had once bound him to Hell, miracled into a less… conspicuous form. Yet another reminder of his Fall: the manacles that could drag him back down at any given time. The burden he thought would be his to carry for the rest of eternity.

These days, his chain is nothing more than an adornment. He wears it as a reminder, more than anything else. Some things cannot and will never be undone, not even by the nearly limitless powers of the Antichrist who had chosen to stop the very end of the world. But today, the angel will free him of its weight, because he is bound to Aziraphale, and to Aziraphale alone.

The angel cups Crowley's cheek and turns his face toward him gently so he can look Crowley in the eye. “Sunglasses off, please.”

Crowley scrambles to obey, hastily pulling off his sunglasses and folding them up, placing them in Aziraphale's outstretched palm on top of the leash.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says approvingly.

Crowley shivers at the praise. He’s not _good._ Demons are the farthest thing there is from good.

And yet a part of him does so desperately want to be good for his angel. Crowley wants to hear him say it again. He craves Aziraphale’s praise, the benevolence that he bestows upon Crowley so generously. He has been starved, and Aziraphale lavishes him with his words the same way he feeds Crowley bites of cake off his own fork.

Crowley bites his lip and hopes it doesn’t show so obviously on his face – but judging by the way the angel is watching him with the satisfied look of a cat that has caught the mouse, he’s probably failed spectacularly on that front.

“Bastard,” he mutters.

“Now, now,” Aziraphale says, his tone darkening in a way that makes Crowley drop his eyes to the ground in shame. “You will speak only when spoken to. And I will not tolerate such language, do you understand?”

“Yes, angel.”

“You’ll behave for me, won’t you, pet?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley repeats. He waits, desperately wanting Aziraphale to tell him once more how good he’s being, but the praise doesn’t come. Aziraphale simply shifts in his armchair and returns to poring over the ancient tome propped up on a bookstand on his desk, ignoring Crowley completely. He squirms a little, wanting to get Aziraphale’s attention – but one look from the angel is all it takes for him to desist.

He closes his eyes and leans his head slightly on the chair, its worn leather soft against his face, and drifts. He doesn’t know how much time passes like this – half an hour, or perhaps more? – before there are fingers buried gently in his hair, scratching his scalp.

“You’ve been so patient for me, dearest,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley blinks his eyes open, feeling pleasantly warm and drowsy. “I’d like you undressed now, if you please.”

Crowley lifts his hand and prepares to miracle his clothes away, but Aziraphale catches his wrist firmly. “No, I think I’d like you to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Oh. Well, then.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley murmurs, his fingers already heavy as he clumsily tugs off the black jacket he’s wearing. He takes hold of the hem of his dark grey henley, pulling it over his head. His bare skin prickles at the cool air of the bookshop, and he shivers slightly as he unfastens his watch from his wrist. He places it on Aziraphale’s palm and hears the gentle clink of it being placed on the desk. His belt goes next, followed by his shoes and socks, and finally, the entire blessed struggle of getting his jeans off – he nearly curses as he shimmies them off, his face on fire with how uncool he must look right now, but he keeps his lips pressed together tightly, afraid of being scolded.

At last, his clothes sit in a messy pile next to him on the ground. He's trembling at being so exposed while Aziraphale is still fully buttoned up and sitting primly in his chair, the golden leash wound lightly around his hand.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley can feel the warmth of his own blush travelling all the way down his neck. He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, so intent it’s nearly a tangible thing, burning and forceful, but he doesn’t dare to lift his gaze until the angel tells him that he can. The angel can look upon Crowley all he wants, but Crowley must wait until it pleases Aziraphale for him to raise his eyes.

“What Effort would you like me to wear, angel?”

There’s a pause before Aziraphale speaks again, as though he’s considering his options. “I must say it’s always so difficult to choose,” he says at last. “But I’m quite satisfied with what you’re wearing now.”

The heat is gathering between Crowley’s legs, and he fidgets a little at Aziraphale’s words, wondering how long he’ll have to wait today before Aziraphale finally deigns to touch him. But he doesn’t mind the wait, not really. This is exactly what he has asked for, after all – to be stripped entirely of his own will, replaced entirely by the angel’s. _My body, given up for you._

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale gathers up his clothes and lays them carefully under the desk. He watches, not comprehending, until Aziraphale tugs at the leash lightly. “Here now, pet.”

Crowley licks his lips. His mouth is already dry at the thought of what Aziraphale might ask him to do. Obediently, he crawls into the small space under the desk, which obliges by making enough room for him to be comfortable, if a little cramped.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, bending over slightly to look him in the eye. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley manages, the need already threading audibly through his voice. From this vantage point, he’s safely enclosed in the darkness, but with just the right amount of space that he can still see the bookshop and anyone who might walk in.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says, and touches Crowley’s hair lightly.

He _is_ very good, Crowley thinks, he’s trying so hard for Aziraphale. But the angel gets up and leaves Crowley kneeling there long enough that it makes him anxious, even though he can hear Aziraphale puttering about in the kitchen. Crowley can’t bear being away from Aziraphale when he’s like this. He needs Aziraphale, craves the safety of his presence when he’s on his knees like this, helpless and stripped of every last defence.

His fingers are pulling uselessly at the leash that’s loosely knotted around the chair’s arm, and he can’t help the small, choked sound that escapes from his throat by the time Aziraphale returns, bearing a cup of tea and a plate with scones liberally slathered with strawberry jam and cream.

“Oh, you _are_ in a state, aren’t you?” Aziraphale says, carefully putting down both plate and cup on the desk before settling back down into his chair. “None of that, dearest. I’m right here, it’s alright.”

He taps his knee reassuringly, and Crowley knows this is permission. He leans forward and rests his cheek on the inside of Aziraphale’s knee, already more than a little comforted at the familiar sensation of the corduroy against his cheek, Aziraphale’s scent filling his lungs with every breath.

“Is that better?” Aziraphale’s fingers are combing gently through his hair again, and Crowley relaxes completely, his limbs turning to water under Aziraphale’s touch. He takes a ragged breath and nods.

“Use your words,” Aziraphale says sternly.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley says, an exhale escaping from his lips when Aziraphale’s touch travels lower, to the sensitive spot behind his ear, tracing circles gently with his thumb. Crowley bites his lip, willing himself not to make a sound, but the muscles in his legs flex involuntarily, his desire pooling deep in his stomach. He wants, oh, he _wants._ On these days, there’s nothing that can satisfy him the way this does – being petted and caressed and cared for, completely at the angel’s beck and call.

“You’ve been doing so well for me,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley warms at the praise. “I think you deserve a little reward, don’t you?”

Crowley looks up just as Aziraphale holds out a bite of scone to him, and he dutifully opens his mouth and allows Aziraphale to place it on his tongue. It’s delicious as far as scones go, buttery and warm, with just the perfect balance of cream and jam. He chews and swallows, humming quietly as Aziraphale continues to stroke his hair, and he looks up to see Aziraphale holding a perfect strawberry between his fingers, his fingers dripping with jam.

“Here, dearest, I know they’re your favourite.”

This time, Crowley takes not just the strawberry between his lips, but Aziraphale’s forefinger and thumb. His thighs tighten together in anticipation, trying to find some relief for the ache that’s beginning to build between his legs. For a moment, he allows his tongue to lengthen and split in his mouth, swirling its length around Aziraphale’s fingers, the jam pleasantly tart and sweet all at once. He gives them one more lingering suck for good measure, but he forgets to be careful, and the edge of a too-sharp fang nips Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale exhales sharply. “Oh, pet,” he says in a voice that makes Crowley want to cower under the desk. “And here I thought you were behaving yourself at last. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley whispers, abashed. He crosses his arms at the wrist behind his back, and even though he’s expecting it, a yelp of surprise escapes him when the bonds wind and tighten around his wrists, holding them in place. He knows Aziraphale intends it as a rebuke, in a way, but it sends a rush of heat through his whole body. He can’t help testing the bonds, tugging lightly – and a jolt rather like an electric shock runs up his arms, half-pleasure, half-pain. The angel has _blessed_ the ropes, and Crowley’s eyes flick up at Aziraphale in surprise.

“A little extra warning for you today, I think,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley has to smother a gasp when a blindfold eclipses his vision. “To make sure you finally learn this particular lesson.”

The sensory deprivation heightens all of Crowley’s other senses to an almost painful intensity. He’s acutely aware of the low-level prickling of the bonds around his wrists, the ache of his calves after kneeling for so long, the building desire between his legs.

To his consternation, he hears the tinkle of the bell above the bookshop entrance ringing ominously as the door swings open with a squeak. He remembers with a shock that he could see the door from his place under the desk, meaning that – 

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, already more than halfway to begging. “Angel, I’m sorry.”

“Do not speak unless you’re spoken to,” Aziraphale says coolly. “I would hate to have to gag your pretty little mouth.”

A whimper escapes Crowley’s lips as he hears the shuffle of customers among the bookshelves. The shame is roiling heavy and hot in his gut, and his thighs squeeze together as he tries to make himself smaller, to hide himself under the desk. He has to bite his lip to keep from sobbing, but the blindfold is soon damp with tears of humiliation before he feels Aziraphale’s hand in his hair, caressing him soothingly.

“Come now, pet,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I won’t let anyone see you. You know that, don’t you? No one will ever see you like this but me. I would never allow it.”

Crowley only sniffles a little as he leans into Aziraphale’s touch, trying to still the hitching of his breath. Aziraphale’s right, he’s being an idiot, really –

But he freezes when he hears footsteps approaching and Aziraphale lets go of him. The armchair scrapes slightly against the wooden floor as Aziraphale gets to his feet. Crowley can hear him politely chivvying the customer out the door, but he can’t make out the words they’re saying at all, terrified as he is to be seen under the desk. He tries to breathe, curled up tightly as he is, tries to remember that Aziraphale surely wouldn’t let anyone get even a glimpse of him.

More customers come and go – why are there so many _bloody_ customers today? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Crowley thinks dimly that he’ll never make fun of Aziraphale again for constantly bemoaning their presence in the bookshop. He squirms with discomfort as footsteps approach the desk once more. This time, it’s Aziraphale conversing with a human, who’d evidently wished to purchase a book that the angel wasn’t loath to part with, judging by the way they’re discussing prices.

Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat as they come closer and closer, and he flinches at the sound of something heavy thudding against the desk above his head. He cringes, covering his mouth with his hands for fear that he might make a noise and displease his angel. He can feel the vibrations of the floorboards under his feet with every moment they make, and his heart is pounding painfully in his chest, dread coursing through him – but somewhere under the terror of being seen lies the assurance of Aziraphale’s words. No one would see Crowley, no one but his angel.

“Interesting watch, by the way,” the human says, somewhere above Crowley’s head. “The sunglasses too. Very unique.”

Aziraphale laughs. “They are, aren’t they?”

Crowley startles as the armchair scrapes across the floor once more and the fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers brushes against his thighs – he realises that Aziraphale has sat back down and _spread his legs_ so as to slot Crowley neatly between him. A stifled whimper escapes his lips as the arousal floods through him in waves, the scent of Aziraphale almost overwhelming in the cramped space. He clenches his legs together uselessly, trying to find some relief as the human continues chattering about a puppy they had just recently adopted.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “I find it takes some time to house-train them sometimes, but once you do, well…” Crowley hears the angel tapping lightly against his knee, and Crowley gratefully leans forward as Aziraphale buries his fingers in his hair. “They do learn to behave after some time, though I’ve certainly had my share of spoiled pets.”

Aziraphale gives him one last caress before getting to his feet once more and politely ushering the customer out the door. Crowley’s ears perk up as he hears the familiar sound of the angel turning the sign in the entrance to “CLOSED.”

 _Finally._ His thighs are sore from kneeling, and he’s dying for Aziraphale to give him some relief from the aching desire that’s been building all afternoon, sharpened by fear and excitement and sheer adrenaline. For the first time it occurs to him that he’s so wet that he’s dripping with it, his ankles and calves smeared with the evidence of his own need. The heat rushes into his face at the thought of what Aziraphale would say if he saw Crowley right now. _What a mess you’ve made of yourself, pet,_ the angel would say, perhaps with a light touch of fingertips from Crowley’s knee up to his thigh, teasing all the way up, touching, but not quite touching, not until Crowley begs him for it.

Crowley bites his lip, his hips jerking involuntarily – what’s taking the angel so _long?_ The smell of his own arousal is thick in the air now, so obvious that Aziraphale couldn’t have missed it if he tried.

“You’ll be good for me a few more minutes, won’t you?” Aziraphale calls out from somewhere in the bookshop – Crowley can hear him drawing the blinds shut, locking up as he went.

“Yes,” he says, his voice reduced to a rasp in his throat, barely audible even to himself.

“Crowley?”

Crowley clears his throat, tries to speak louder. It’s difficult after being silent for so long. “Yes, angel.”

He tries to wait as quietly as he can, but it’s agonising now that he’s so aware of how badly he needs to be touched. He can’t help fidgeting, his hips rocking back and forth just the smallest bit, trying to find some friction. But at long last, he hears Aziraphale’s familiar tread approaching the desk.

“Here we are,” the angel says, and Crowley feels the angel’s fingers gently undoing the blindfold and uncovering his eyes – he has to blink a few times, squinting as his vision adjusts to the light. The first thing he notices, absurdly enough, is the piece of tartan cloth Aziraphale is holding that had been miracled into a blindfold.

The angel has a serious look on his face as he reaches out and smooths a lock of hair away from Crowley’s forehead. Aziraphale gets to his feet and unties the leash from the chair, winding it around his hand once more.

“It’s time for you to stretch your legs a little, I think.”

Crowley shuffles awkwardly out from beneath the desk, his wrists still bound behind his back. The angel tugs at the leash lightly, leading Crowley over to the old sofa. It’s slow progress with how stiff Crowley’s legs are at this point, but Aziraphale seems content to wait, settling himself on the sofa to watch Crowley hobbling his way toward him on his knees.

“Have you learned your lesson, pet?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley whispers. “I have.” He’s utterly captivated by the sight of Aziraphale undoing his winged cufflinks and setting them on the side table, slowly rolling up his sleeves to the elbow, fold by fold. Oh, those _forearms._ Crowley thinks for one ludicrous moment that he might actually faint.

Aziraphale beckons to Crowley until he’s kneeling between the angel’s legs. Crowley drops his eyes, but his gaze has the unfortunate result of falling directly on the visible bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers. He swallows hard, fervently hoping that he didn’t make a mess on the carpet between the desk and the sofa. He desperately wants to turn his head to check, but he’s learned his lesson. He’s been good. He wants Aziraphale to know it.

But he can’t help peeking up through his lashes at Aziraphale, who’s watching him with a look that Crowley is all too familiar with – it’s that twist of his mouth when he’s trying to decide which of his favourite entrées he wants to order for dinner. Crowley takes a ragged breath, unable to stop his legs from clenching together. He’s suddenly painfully aware once more of the fact that the angel is still buttoned up to the neck, bow tie and all, while Crowley is laid bare before him, completely at his mercy.

“House-training, indeed,” Aziraphale murmurs, sounding faintly amused. “I’ve heard it called ‘housebreaking’ in other places… that seems rather more appropriate to me, don’t you think?” Aziraphale says, the intent in his voice so obvious that Crowley can’t help but flick his eyes up at the angel, forgetting himself for a moment. “What shall I do with you now, pet?”

“Whatever you like, angel,” Crowley says, mesmerised by the way the angel’s lips have parted slightly with desire. “Take it from me.”

Aziraphale’s hand comes up and cups Crowley’s chin, lifting his face, his thumb brushing across Crowley’s lips. “I’m rather in favour of making the most of this mouth of yours after all your rudeness today.”

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley says, leaning into the warmth of the angel’s palm, so desperately needy. “Please.”

“Please what _?”_ Aziraphale’s fingers trail lightly down Crowley’s jaw and the line of his neck, coming to rest on the white collar around Crowley’s neck.

“Please touch me,” Crowley whispers.

“I am touching you, pet,” Aziraphale says, the amusement colouring his voice.

“ _More._ Please, angel.” Crowley lifts his chin to give Aziraphale a better view of his collar. To remind Aziraphale just exactly who owns every last inch of him.

For a moment, Aziraphale’s hand tightens deliciously around his throat. “Ever the coquette, aren’t you, dearest?” The angel’s voice has dropped to a low rumble in his chest that makes Crowley’s cunt clench hard on nothing.

“Only for you, angel,” Crowley breathes. “There’s never been anyone else but you.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says, a dangerous glint in his blue eyes that makes a thrill run up Crowley’s spine. This is what he’s been waiting for all day, kneeling quietly for Aziraphale on his hands and knees. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s chin with one hand and kisses him forcefully, the way he knows Crowley likes it. Crowley parts his lips to allow Aziraphale to lick his way into his mouth, moaning around the angel’s tongue.

His hands tug uselessly against the bonds around his wrists, sending jolts up his arms that only heighten his pleasure. _Just like this_ , he thinks, this is exactly what he needed – for Aziraphale to possess every inch of him, in whatever way he wants, Crowley submitting to his will, his every desire.

They’re both panting for air when Aziraphale pulls away, and his hand tilts Crowley’s face slightly, examining him. “Beautiful,” he says again, pressing another hard kiss against Crowley’s lips. “Look at you, pet, you and your pretty mouth. I’ve barely done a thing and you’re already such a mess for me, aren’t you?”

He leans forward, biting a line of heat from Crowley’s ear all the way down to the collar. Crowley turns his head to allow Aziraphale better access, his eyes closing with pleasure as Aziraphale’s teeth nip at a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. “Angel,” he says, his voice ragged. “Please –”

The rest of his words are cut off when without further ado, Aziraphale reaches down and brushes his fingertips between Crowley’s legs. He moans, spreading his thighs wider, trying to grind down on Aziraphale’s hand, but the angel will only give him the lightest of touches, barely grazing his slit.

“Angel,” Crowley says again, begging unashamedly now.

“Patience, dearest,” Aziraphale whispers, biting down lightly on Crowley’s earlobe. “Let me enjoy you.”

Crowley shivers with every gentle skim of Aziraphale’s hand between his legs, eyes clenched tight, until Aziraphale finally deigns to swirl a finger around his entrance teasingly.

“Look at me,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley forces his eyes open, biting his lip when Aziraphale dips into him with a finger – he’s so wet that Aziraphale slides in easily. An embarrassing noise rips itself from his throat when Aziraphale pushes in with another finger.

“So needy for me,” Aziraphale says, and he takes Crowley’s lower lip between his teeth and tugs. Crowley gasps against his mouth, his hips bucking against Aziraphale’s hand. His fingers are moving in and out of Crowley so slowly that it’s frustrating, filling him but _not enough –_ and he whimpers with disappointment when the angel pulls out.

“All in good time,” Aziraphale says, a smile hovering about the corners of his lips, the _bastard_. “I think I’d like you to taste yourself before you taste me,” he adds, and traces the outline of Crowley’s mouth with his glistening fingertips. Crowley’s lips part, and Aziraphale pushes his fingers against Crowley’s tongue, his eyes fixed on Crowley as he laves his tongue around the angel’s fingers thrusting minutely into his mouth. Crowley wonders if he’s imagining how he’s about to fuck Crowley’s face, and a full-body tremble goes through him.

Out of nowhere, Aziraphale’s trousers suddenly unbutton themselves of their own accord. For a moment, they look at each other, jolted out of the scene in their surprise.

“Did you do that?” Aziraphale asks, looking confused as he withdraws his fingers from Crowley’s mouth.

“Er. Maybe?” Crowley thinks for a moment. “M’not sure, actually.”

“Oh. Well then.” It only takes a moment more for the uncertainty to clear from Aziraphale’s face. “Even if you did, you naughty thing, I’m quite pleased.” He leans back as his hand dips beneath the waistband of his underwear, pulling his cock free, already hard and leaking – and noticeably thicker than usual. Crowley’s jaw drops open in astonishment.

“Is this what you wanted, pet?”

Crowley’s mouth waters, already drawn back into the moment, and he licks his lips in anticipation. “Yes,” he says at once, but catches himself at once. “Yes, angel,” he says, and Aziraphale’s lips curve into a smirk.

“Very good,” he purrs, and Crowley nearly keens at the praise. “You learn so quickly.” He’s stroking himself slowly, his breath hitching in time with his hand, his fingers damp from Crowley’s mouth. “Perhaps this merits a reward?”

“Please, angel,” Crowley says. There’s something undeniably filthy about the way Aziraphale is still fully dressed, jerking himself off to Crowley kneeling at his feet. He’s completely entranced by the tantalising drop of moisture on the head of Aziraphale’s flushed cock. He wants that in his _mouth._

“Come closer.”

Crowley obediently shuffles forward on his knees until he’s pressed between Aziraphale’s thighs, feeling the steel of the angel’s muscle beneath the softness. He can’t help but stare down at Aziraphale’s length, mere inches away from his lips.

“I take it you like what you’re seeing, pet,” Aziraphale says. Crowley looks up, and there’s a smile on the angel’s face, but there’s also a small furrow above one eyebrow that tells Crowley what Aziraphale is really asking. _Is this alright?_

He nods before he speaks, holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Yes, angel,” he says, and means it. “It’s lovely.”

“Moved on to flattering me, I see,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle, but he leans forward and kisses Crowley lightly on the forehead. His angel needs reassurance too sometimes, on the days when Crowley chooses to use only his safeword. “Would you like to have a taste?”

“Please,” Crowley says. He can already picture the way his lips are going to stretch around Aziraphale’s new girth, can already taste the angel’s bitterness on his tongue.

Aziraphale settles against the sofa, which courteously fluffs itself up to make itself more comfortable for him. He gestures to his cock. “You deserve a treat, pet. Indulge yourself.”

Crowley bends down, wrapping his lips around the head of Aziraphale’s cock.

He had known objectively that Aziraphale had taken liberties today where size was concerned, but actually having the angel’s cock in his mouth is an entirely different story. He takes his time getting acquainted with its heft, lapping at the head with his tongue lightly.

Aziraphale’s fingers tangle into his hair, pushing him down – and he obediently unhinges his jaw and swallows Aziraphale down to the hilt, until his nose brushes the light patch of hair at the base of Aziraphale’s cock. The angel groans, his hips rocking up into Crowley’s mouth.

“I don’t – don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of that,” he says breathily. His fingers tighten pleasurably in Crowley’s hair. “Only I think… I’d like to have more to hold onto.”

A surprised noise escapes Crowley’s mouth at the sensation of his hair lengthening, cascading into soft red waves around his jaw. A thrill run downs his spine at the thought of Aziraphale doing just as he pleases with him. The angel gathers up the curls away from Crowley’s face, holding them tightly in one hand.

“There, that’s much better,” Aziraphale says, guiding Crowley’s mouth up and down on his length slowly with his hand, exhaling unevenly. “Look at me, pet.”

Crowley’s gaze lifts to the angel’s flushed face, his eyes dark with desire. Oh, he _loves_ seeing Aziraphale coming apart, and he knows just how Aziraphale enjoys watching him. He hollows his cheeks as he sucks hard, sloppy and wet, his serpent’s tongue wrapping around Aziraphale’s cock. There’s nothing he loves more than putting on a show for his angel.

“You’re absolutely gorgeous right now, dearest. Look at you, your lips all swollen and red, stretched wide around me like this.” Crowley shivers as the angel begins to thrust slightly, the head of Aziraphale’s cock hitting the back of his throat. “So utterly debauched,” Aziraphale says, gasping between words. “ _Beautiful._ So perfect for me.”

Crowley’s eyes are beginning to water at the way Aziraphale is fucking his mouth, but there’s nothing he loves more than seeing Aziraphale like this, breathless with pleasure, taking what he wants from Crowley. He’d happily go on sucking Aziraphale for as long as the angel wanted, but he pulls at Crowley’s hair unexpectedly, releasing his cock from Crowley’s mouth with a small pop. Before Crowley can object, Aziraphale’s lips are against his, warm and demanding, his tongue exploring Crowley’s mouth for a long moment before he breaks the kiss.

“On the couch now, pet,” Aziraphale says, his voice harsh with desire as he unties Crowley’s wrists with a single strong tug that leaves Crowley breathless.

The angel wraps an arm around Crowley’s waist and pulls him to his feet as though he weighs nothing. Crowley staggers for a moment as Aziraphale pets his thighs, massaging the feeling back into them until he can stand somewhat shakily on his own. He allows Aziraphale to position him the way he wants – hands on the backrest, one leg propped up on the sofa. Aziraphale’s hand is warm against the small of his back, pushing him down.

“Angel,” he says, his mind already caught in the fog of anticipation.

“Just a little more, pet,” Aziraphale says, his lips trailing kisses down Crowley’s spine. Bent over like this, he feels completely exposed, even more so than he has been all afternoon. “You’ve been patient all this time.” He gasps as the head of the angel’s cock skims teasingly over his slit. “What a mess you are. Completely drenched,” Aziraphale breathes.

A loud moan tears itself from Crowley’s throat as Aziraphale slides into him with a single push, inch after inch of his cock sinking deeper into Crowley until he’s sheathed himself completely, his hips flush against Crowley’s arse.

Crowley’s so deliciously full and aching with how big Aziraphale is inside him that he can barely breathe, feeling almost as though he’s being split in two. Aziraphale shushes him, his breathing heavy and ragged against Crowley’s skin as he caresses Crowley softly, his hands running up and down Crowley’s waist and stomach, soothing him with warmth for a long moment, until Crowley is shaking with desire just waiting for Aziraphale to move.

“You take me so well, dearest,” the angel says almost wonderingly, his hands now so tight around Crowley’s hips that he’s certain he’s going to have bruises in the morning. His hips rock minutely against Crowley, who gasps – Aziraphale’s cock fills him so completely that he can feel every single tiny movement Aziraphale makes.

“ _Oh,_ ” the angel moans, as though he’s been caught off-guard with the pleasure of it. “Crowley, you’re so tight.” Slowly, he begins to move, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. It’s not long before Crowley’s hands are gripping the sofa’s backrest tightly, his eyes slamming shut with pleasure.

“Angel,” he breathes. “More, angel, _please_ –”

“You hussy, always so demanding,” Aziraphale says with a strong thrust that pulls a cry from Crowley’s lips. Crowley feels the angel’s hand gathering up his hair once more and fisting tightly, forcing Crowley’s head back, his other hand pushing Crowley down, forcing his back into a deeper arch. “How many times am I going to have to teach you this lesson?” He pulls out, and Crowley whines at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. “You take what I give you,” the angel growls, plunging hard into Crowley to punctuate his words, burying himself fully in Crowley’s cunt. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

The angel sets a punishing pace, fucking Crowley so hard that he has to brace his forearms against the backrest. Bent over at this angle, Aziraphale’s cock is brushing at the sensitive spot in Crowley with every thrust, and for a single blessed moment, it’s as though he’s seeing the stars in the sky, just as he once hung them. He’s moaning wantonly at the onslaught of pleasure, helpless under Aziraphale’s demanding rhythm.

“Yes, angel. I’ll take it. Whatever you give me,” he gasps, Aziraphale’s thrusts pushing the words out of him. “Everything and anything you want.”

“That’s right,” Aziraphale says, his voice a harsh growl. “Because you’re _mine,_ pet. I can do what I like with you. Bend you over and fuck you right into the sofa, just like this. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley’s nearly keening now, the pleasure building to nearly unbearable heights as Aziraphale’s hips push into him relentlessly. “I’m yours, yours to do as you like with –”

“Every bit of you is mine.” The angel lets go of Crowley’s hair to reach down to the apex between his thighs, his fingers finding Crowley’s clit without missing a beat. “Mine to chastise, if I must. Mine to use. Mine to _keep._ ”

“All yours,” Crowley moans, the pleasure cresting so high that he’s moments away from falling, “angel, please, don’t stop –”

“Oh, I won’t,” Aziraphale says with a throaty chuckle, and the promise of his words is what tips Crowley over the edge into ecstasy, white-hot and blinding, so intense that only Aziraphale’s arm around his waist keeps him from collapsing into a shivering mass of limbs.

But true to his word, the angel doesn’t stop – his hips continue to rock into Crowley, his fingers still pressing on Crowley’s clit, drawing out the pleasure. He gasps as Aziraphale’s teeth sink into his shoulder, the collar tight against his throat as the angel's grip on the leash tightens. Even though Crowley's just come, he can feel his orgasm building again, and his trembling hands clutch at the sofa’s backrest desperately.

“Mercy, angel, please,” he begs weakly, his legs about to give way from Aziraphale’s unyielding pace. He’s a complete wreck, shivering with want, with _need._ “I-I’m going, going to –”

“Come again?” Aziraphale asks silkily, and Crowley does, crying out, his hips bucking helplessly against Aziraphale as he rides out the waves of his pleasure. He gasps, trying to catch his breath, when without warning, Aziraphale picks him up and throws him onto the sofa, which has contrived to make itself large enough to fit two human-shaped beings comfortably.

Aziraphale crawls on top of him, pushing his thighs apart, spreading his knees – how is the angel _still_ fully dressed when Crowley has already come apart, been put back together, and then promptly fallen into pieces once more? It’s beyond all understanding. Ineffable, even.

“I’ll forgive you for speaking out of turn this time, pet,” Aziraphale says, amused. Had Crowley said that out loud? _Bless_ his pleasure-addled brain. “But I’ll thank you to remember that I’m not done with you yet.”

The sight of the golden leash still tightly gripped in the angel’s hand has Crowley trembling. Aziraphale pulls him closer by the waist and sinks into him once more, his cock burying itself deep in Crowley’s cunt. “Angel,” he sighs, “angel –”

“Do you see now why you wear your collar?” Aziraphale murmurs before directing his tongue to Crowley’s nipple, until Crowley gasps with pleasure. “This is why. Because this is what you want. You want me to take you. You want me to _own_ you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley says, soft noises escaping from his throat as he undulates his hips, wanting Aziraphale to _move_. “I want you to have me. Mark me as yours.”

“Greedy little thing,” Aziraphale says, a huff of laughter escaping his lips. “Insatiable, that’s what you are. And I must say, I don’t think I ever want to train you out of it.”

Whatever Crowley was about to say is silenced by Aziraphale’s mouth on his, swallowing the moans that the angel is fucking right out of him. He wraps his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, and they both groan at the change in angle, Aziraphale’s cock pushing even deeper into Crowley.

The friction on his clit is almost too much with how sensitive he is, but before long the pleasure is building again, more quickly than he could have imagined. Crowley’s hips roll against Aziraphale’s, the angel pounding him into the sofa, and without warning his orgasm knocks into him with the force of a tidal wave. He gasps against Aziraphale’s shoulder, writhing beneath the angel’s weight, the pleasure drawn on and on, until at last the angel’s hips stutter, losing the steady rhythm he’s set – Crowley pulls the angel down on top of him and Aziraphale lets out a wordless moan against Crowley’s neck, his cock spilling into Crowley in hot spurts.

For a moment, they lie there, trying to catch their breaths. Crowley’s eyes flicker open when Aziraphale pushes himself up. His hand comes up and brushes lightly against Crowley’s cheek, damp with tears he hadn’t realised had trickled down his face.

“Are you alright, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Crowley says honestly, his voice grown quite hoarse, but he finds that his words have at last come unstoppered. “It was just, you know.” He clears his throat. “A lot.”

“Not too much, I hope.” Aziraphale pushes a curl behind his ear, looking anxious.

“Not at all. Just what I needed, in fact.” Crowley pushes himself up slightly by the elbow to kiss him. When he pulls away, the angel looks a great deal more cheerful. 

“Goodness,” Aziraphale says. “It’s quite warm like this, isn’t it?”

Crowley laughs and reaches up, tugging lazily at the tartan bowtie to undo the tidy knot. “S’what comes of being all buttoned up.”

“Oh, hush. You seemed to enjoy it.”

“You know I did.” Crowley snaps his fingers to miracle away the mess.

“Crowley,” the angel frets. “I should have done that.”

“You can do this instead,” Crowley says softly, and lifts his chin.

This is how it ends – with Aziraphale carefully unfastening the collar with gentle fingers, setting it down on the floor with the golden leash that matches his aysignet ring. He has a silk robe in black, its edges trimmed with red lace, that he keeps for Crowley to wear after days like this. It would be perfect, Crowley thinks drowsily as Aziraphale pulls the robe over his shoulders and ties it shut securely, if only Aziraphale didn’t insist on covering him with a hideous tartan blanket on top of it.

“Here you are,” Aziraphale says, taking Crowley’s hands and cupping them carefully around a winged mug filled with hot cocoa. There are little white and pale blue marshmallows floating on top. Crowley’s already opening his mouth to object, but Aziraphale interrupts him before he can even say anything. “I spiked it with a little warm brandy. You can’t possibly object to that.”

Crowley lets out a little grumbling noise and huddles under the blanket. “You really don’t have to do that, angel,” he says as Aziraphale sits cross-legged on the floor, lifting one of Crowley’s feet into his lap.

“Good etiquette does in fact specify that aftercare is an essential part of this,” Aziraphale says briskly, pushing his thumbs into the ball of Crowley’s foot in a way that makes him lean against the sofa’s backrest, his eyes fluttering shut. “And for the record, I _want_ to do this.”

“Nrgkh,” Crowley says, his eyes rolling back into his head as Aziraphale applies pressure into the arch, moving in circles with his thumbs.

Aziraphale chuckles. “All you have to do now is to relax and enjoy yourself,” he says, skilfully pressing and kneading into Crowley’s foot as he leans harder into the sofa, unable to suppress the occasional sigh or moan. “Don’t hold back, dearest,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “You know how much I love to hear it.”

“Shut up,” Crowley groans as Aziraphale sets his foot back down on the ground and lifts the other into his lap. “Holy hell _,_ angel, are you _trying_ to discorporate me?”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says lightly, rubbing at a tender spot on his instep that makes his toes curl. “But that implies that you’re enjoying this much more than –”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley says, embarrassed. “I take your point.”

“Drink your cocoa before it gets cold.” The angel’s clearly enjoying all the little noises he’s pulling out of Crowley as his fingers continue to work their magic, and by the time he finishes, Crowley’s gone completely boneless, head slumped against the backrest with his eyes closed.

“Was that alright, dearest?”

Crowley blinks his eyes open, only to behold a truly horrifying pair of tartan socks.

“I’m not giving you any compliments after you put those revolting things on my feet,” Crowley says, appalled.

“You love them, and you know it.”

The angel’s right, but there’s no way Crowley’s going to tell him that.

Aziraphale takes the half-empty cup of cocoa from his hands, setting it down on the table before pulling Crowley into his lap. “Comfortable?”

“Mm,” Crowley says agreeably as he nestles his cheek into the divot between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, feeling the steady beat of the angel’s pulse against his skin. “S’not bad.”

“Such high praise,” Aziraphale says mildly as he takes Crowley’s hand, his thumbs rolling against Crowley’s forearm in a soothing motion, moving from wrist to elbow slowly. “Whatever shall I do in the face of such a compliment?”

Crowley laughs and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “You sit there and appreciate me the way I deserve.”

“Always, dearest. Every day of the past six thousand years, I've sat and appreciated you,” Aziraphale says, pausing for a moment to wrap an arm around Crowley, enfolding him in warmth, before he resumes massaging Crowley’s other forearm. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Crowley admits. “Sleepy.” He thinks for a moment. “I liked the, erm,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “the talking.” Aziraphale has a shockingly filthy mouth. Crowley doesn’t know why it still surprises him, after all these years of watching Aziraphale’s little pink tongue licking his spoons clean. It’s a mouth that belongs to an angel who knows exactly what he enjoys.

“I noticed,” Aziraphale says gleefully. “You like it when I praise you too?”

“Mmph,” Crowley says, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “Maybe. Only a little. Don’t get your head all puffed up.”

Too late. The angel’s practically glowing with delight. “Oh, dearest. I’ve always known that deep down, you’re really quite a nice –”

“Scene’s over, angel,” Crowley says grumpily, but Aziraphale only beams at him and tucks the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

“You know I love taking care of you.” Aziraphale smooths an errant curl away from his face, looking unexpectedly serious. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Crowley.”

Crowley’s up in arms, limbs flailing, but Aziraphale holds him firmly on his lap, not letting him get away. “Angel, you can’t just _say_ things like that –”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale protests. “Stop squirming, you old serpent –”

A torrent of incoherent consonants floods from Crowley’s lips, because despite all his objections, he’s completely, incandescently happy. “I – _hrngh_ – y’know, thanks, I guess. For the, erm... the thing.”

Aziraphale hums, and Crowley hears a soft sound like the brush of feathers. “Anytime, dearest, you know that.” There’s a short pause. “I love you.”

“I know, angel,” Crowley says, sighing with relief as an enormous white wing settles around his shoulders, its weight comforting and warm. Protecting him. Always protecting him. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [lookitsstevie,](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/) who ended up making art for this lovechild of a fic and naming it even though it was supposed to be a GIFT FOR THEM, oh my god. Thank you for the additional 30+ feral hours of pure unadulterated screaming, please have my anatomical heart on a silver platter.
> 
> All my love also for the collared Crowley crowd, especially to [crownorcollar](https://twitter.com/crownorcollar) who set NSFW Twitter on fire!! And to [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau), for cheering for me as always!


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